


we’re not out of the tunnel, i bet you though there’s an end

by mygalfriday (BrinneyFriday)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, inspired by the realization that Crowley probably thought his last words to aziraphale, were ‘when i’m off in the stars i won’t even think about you’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:54:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrinneyFriday/pseuds/mygalfriday
Summary: The words repeat on a loop in his head, like a CD left in the Bentley too long - warped and twisted to play only one thing. It’s been the one constant in his mind since he sat amidst the flames of a burning bookshop, gripping Agnes Nutter’s prophecies in his shaking hands.





	we’re not out of the tunnel, i bet you though there’s an end

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from I Will by Mitski.

_“And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you.”_

The words repeat on a loop in his head, like a CD left in the Bentley too long - warped and twisted to play only one thing. It’s been the one constant in his mind since he sat amidst the flames of a burning bookshop, gripping Agnes Nutter’s prophecies in his shaking hands. Dripping wet and desperately broken, Crowley’s very last words to his best friend in all the world had reverberated around him like his own personal hell. 

_I won’t even think about you._

All the things he could have said and he’d chosen that. Not _I’ve been mooning after you since Eden and if you don’t come with me then what’s the point of leaving at all_. Not _I’m terrified of what they’ll do to you if you stay here_. Not _please for the love of_ Somebody _, choose me over Them just this once_. No, Crowley - in his infinite wisdom cultivated over six thousand years - had chosen the selfish thing. The thing he thought would leave a mark. And it certainly had, but like all the bad things Crowley has ever done, it returns like a boomerang to hit him where it hurts most. This time, it had struck him right over his stupidly human heart. 

He can still remember the heat of the flames, the water dripping into his eyes, the cavern yawning wide and hollow in his chest as the realization settled over him. Aziraphale was dead - not discorporated, not temporarily in heaven for one of those team retreats he’d always hated - but gone forever and the last words he’d ever heard Crowley say to him were

_I_

_won’t_

_even_

_think_

_about_

_you_

Even now, sitting in the newly restored bookshop with Aziraphale safe and close by, muttering to himself as he peruses his shelves, it’s all Crowley can hear. He swallows the last of his third glass of Aziraphale’s very expensive, very old brandy and feels it settle unpleasantly alongside the champagne in his system. As he reaches for the bottle and pours himself another glass anyway, he listens to the excited murmuring behind him as Aziraphale discovers yet another first edition he didn’t have before Adam’s grand restoration. 

The sound of his voice, soft and pleased, soothes Crowley in places he hadn’t even realized needed to be soothed in the first place. He closes his eyes and feels his fingers loosen their white-knuckled grip on his glass. He sinks into the worn cushions of the settee and releases a breath he doesn’t even need. With it, words come tumbling off his drunken tongue he never meant to say at all. 

“I didn’t mean it, you know.”

The confession is low enough that for a moment after it bursts unbidden past his lips, he hopes maybe Aziraphale hadn’t even heard it. But the quietly delighted inventory taking place behind him has stopped and he can no longer hear the soft tap of Oxfords moving across the floorboards. He can almost picture Aziraphale paused uncertainly at one of his shelves, his hand on the binding of a Hemingway as he frowns at the back of Crowley’s head. After a beat of silence, he asks, “Didn’t mean what, my dear?”

Crowley grimaces, at both the question and the endearment. He is _not_ a dear. He has never been anyone’s _dear_. But for Aziraphale, who had said it for the first time over dessert this afternoon, beaming as though he’s wanted to say it for centuries but had worried the wrong people might overhear, Crowley will endure it. Might even like it a bit. Not that he’d ever admit it even to God Herself. 

Staring hard at the half-empty bottle of brandy on the coffee table, resting beside his abandoned glasses, Crowley admits stiffly, “What I said before.” He swallows, sensing Aziraphale’s continued bafflement even from across the room. Gritting his teeth, he forces out, “That I wouldn’t think about you.”

Aziraphale makes a soft noise of surprise and Crowley listens with apprehension to the tap-tap of his Oxfords as he moves closer. He doesn’t dare look up, not even when he feels the angel perch carefully on the cushion beside him. “Well of course you didn’t,” he says, and the sheer amount of certainty, of _belief_ , in his voice makes Crowley’s eyes sting. He tips his head back and stares hard at the ceiling. “I knew that.”

“Did you? Because I thought - and then you were gone and - all I could think was-”

He stops trying to explain himself, terrified the lump in his throat will give him away. He grits his teeth in an effort to will away the traitorous wetness in his eyes and refuses to utter another word. He doesn’t need to. Beside him, Aziraphale breathes in sharply with realization. 

“You thought those were your last words to me.” The cushions shift and suddenly the warmth of Aziraphale feels so much closer than before - like Crowley is standing in front of the sun. “Oh, Crowley.”

He flinches. “Don’t. It’s nothing. I just didn’t want you to think-” He sighs, glaring at nothing in particular and hating himself for even bringing it up at all. “I would have thought about you, all right? That’s all I wanted to say.”

Beside him, he can sense Aziraphale beaming at him. He doesn’t dare look but the angelic glow of him is nearly blinding. If he doesn’t turn it down a few notches, Crowley worries he might wind up a smoking crater on the settee - accidentally smote by the holiness of a purely angelic grin. As far as ways to go, it isn’t a bad one, so he keeps his concerns to himself. He waits instead for Aziraphale to say something that’ll make him recoil. _That’s very nice of you, Crowley_ or _what a lovely thing to say, Crowley_ or _I knew you were secretly a good person, Crowley_ but Aziraphale only presses a soft hand to his knee and squeezes gently. 

It startles him so badly he nearly jolts off the settee and lands in a heap on the floor. He lifts his head from staring at the ceiling so fast he hears something in his neck crack. Aziraphale doesn’t do this sort of deliberate touch, never has. It’s always an accident - or at least he likes to make it look like one. Brushing his fingers when handing him a cup of tea. His foot glancing against Crowley’s leg beneath a table at the Ritz. And now here he is, stroking his thumb over Crowley’s knee and there isn’t anything accidental about it at all. 

Crowley turns his head, staring at him in bewilderment. “Angel?”

Watching him with those blue eyes, his cheeks pink with the self-consciousness that Crowley finds both endearing and maddening, Aziraphale admits, “I would have missed you. If you had gone.”

He looks away and straightens his bowtie, still blushing, like he thinks he’s said too much. Crowley wishes he could tell him that after six thousand years of carefully avoiding acknowledging what they mean to each other, he’d listen to Aziraphale say things like that for the next century and still shudder with the newness of it. “Yeah, I know the feeling,” he says instead. “S’why I didn’t go.”

Aziraphale looks hopeful, eyes brightening. Like he craves the same words Crowley does. And Christ - Satan - _Somebody_ , how had he never realized they’re both so hungry for the same thing? If he’d known, he’d have told Hell to go fuck itself millennia ago. “Really?”

“Couldn’t,” he says, throat suddenly dry. “Not without you.”

Smiling that soft, secret smile and darting a shy glance at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale murmurs, “I’m glad.”

Transfixed by the sight of him, utterly becoming in the soft light of the bookshop - blond curls fuzzy from the evening rain and his face still a bit pink-cheeked - it takes Crowley longer than it should to realize Aziraphale’s hand is still on his knee. Still drawing absent patterns with his thumb. His palm is warm even through Crowley’s jeans and the soft tickle of his caress makes him want to melt into the settee cushions and bask in the new freedom of glorious, _blessed_ touch. 

Following Crowley’s stare, Aziraphale seems to realize he’s still touching Crowley at the same moment Crowley silently admits he never wants him to stop. He draws his hand away, curling his fingers into his palm, and the loss of his warmth makes Crowley bite his lip against a whimper. “So sorry,” Aziraphale says, blushing again. “I should get back to the books-”

And he could, Crowley knows. He could wander away back to his inventory right now and nothing at all would change between them. They’d still go to dinner, still feed the ducks, still drink too much and steal the occasional fleeting touch. And that would all be fine. But Crowley didn’t go to the trouble of trying save this world for just _fine_.

“Stay.”

Aziraphale stills. “What?”

Steeling himself, Crowley reaches out and takes his hand. The warmth of his soft palm nearly undoes him but he bites back a hiss and carefully places Aziraphale’s hand back on his knee. Aziraphale doesn’t protest, watching in fascination as his hand seems to curl possessively at Crowley’s knee without his permission. He breathes in, his eyes glassy and captivated. 

Crowley strokes a gentle fingertip over his knuckles and when Aziraphale shudders and leans in closer, hungry for _moremoremore_ just like Crowley, he says roughly, “Stay with me, angel.”

They’re not perfect, as last words go. But as the first words of a brand new beginning? They’ll do. 


End file.
